Ten Days in a Mad-House and Other Stories (7 page)

patient denied any such peculiar freaks of sight and hearing. At 10

o’clock we were given a cup of unsalted beef tea; at noon a bit of cold

meat and a potatoe, at 3 o’clock a cup of oatmeal gruel and at 5.30 a

cup of tea and a slice of unbuttered bread. We were all cold and

hungry. After the physician left we were given shawls and told to

walk up and down the halls in order to get warm. During the day

the pavilion was visited by a number of people who were curious to

see the crazy girl from Cuba. I kept my head covered, on the plea of

being cold, for fear some of the reporters would recognize me. Some

of the visitors were apparently in search of a missing girl, for I was

made take down the shawl repeatedly, and after they looked at me

they would say, “I don’t know her,” “or [sic], “she is not the one,”

for which I was secretly thankful. Warden O’Rourke visited me, and

tried his arts on an examination. Then he brought some well-dressed

women and some gentlemen at different times to have a glance at

the mysterious Nellie Brown.

The reporters were the most troublesome. Such a number of them!

And they were all so bright and clever that I was terribly frightened

lest they should see that I was sane. They were very kind and nice to

me, and very gentle in all their questionings. My late visitor the night

previous came to the window while some reporters were

interviewing me in the sitting-room, and told the nurse to allow

them to see me, as they would be of assistance in finding some clew

as to my identity.

In the afternoon Dr. Field came and examined me. He asked me only

a few questions, and one that had no bearing on such a case. The

chief question was of my home and friends, and if I had any lovers

or had ever been married. Then he made me stretch out my arms

and move my fingers, which I did without the least hesitation, yet I

heard him say my case was hopeless. The other patients were asked

the same questions.

As the doctor was about to leave the pavilion Miss Tillie Mayard

discovered that she was in an insane ward. She went to Dr. Field and

asked him why she had been sent there.

“Have you just found out you are in an insane asylum?” asked the

doctor.

“Yes; my friends said they were sending me to a convalescent ward

to be treated for nervous debility, from which I am suffering since

my illness. I want to get out of this place immediately.”

“Well, you won’t get out in a hurry,” he said, with a quick laugh.

“If you know anything at all,” she responded, “you should be able to

tell that I am perfectly sane. Why don’t you test me?”

“We know all we want to on that score,” said the doctor, and he left

the poor girl condemned to an insane asylum, probably for life,

without giving her one feeble chance to prove her sanity.

Sunday night was but a repetition of Saturday. All night long we

were kept awake by the talk of the nurses and their heavy walking

through the uncarpeted halls. On Monday morning we were told

that we should be taken away at 1.30. The nurses questioned me

unceasingly about my home, and all seemed to have an idea that I

had a lover who had cast me forth on the world and wrecked my

brain. The morning brought many reporters. How untiring they are

in their efforts to get something new. Miss Scott refused to allow me

to be seen, however, and for this I was thankful. Had they been

given free access to me, I should probably not have been a mystery

long, for many of them knew me by sight. Warden O’Rourke came

for a final visit and had a short conversation with me. He wrote his

name in my notebook, saying to the nurse that I would forget all

about it in an hour. I smiled and thought I wasn’t sure of that. Other

people called to see me, but none knew me or could give any

information about me.

Noon came. I grew nervous as the time approached to leave for the

Island. I dreaded every new arrival, fearful that my secret would be

discovered at the last moment. Then I was given a shawl and my hat

and gloves. I could hardly put them on, my nerves were so unstrung.

At last the attendant arrived, and I bade good-bye to Mary as I

slipped “a few pennies” into her hand. “God bless you,” she said; “I

shall pray for you. Cheer up, dearie. You are young, and will get

over this.” I told her I hoped so, and then I said good-bye to Miss

Scott in Spanish. The rough-looking attendant twisted his arms

around mine, and half-led, half-dragged me to an ambulance. A

crowd of the students had assembled, and they watched us

curiously. I put the shawl over my face, and sank thankfully into the

wagon. Miss Neville, Miss Mayard, Mrs. Fox, and Mrs. Schanz were

all put in after me, one at a time. A man got in with us, the doors

were locked, and we were driven out of the gates in great style on

toward the Insane Asylum and victory! The patients made no move

to escape. The odor of the male attendant’s breath was enough to

make one’s head swim.

When we reached the wharf such a mob of people crowded around

the wagon that the police were called to put them away, so that we

could reach the boat. I was the last of the procession. I was escorted

down the plank, the fresh breeze blowing the attendants’ whisky

breath into my face until I staggered. I was taken into a dirty cabin,

where I found my companions seated on a narrow bench. The small

windows were closed, and, with the smell of the filthy room, the air

was stifling. At one end of the cabin was a small bunk in such a

condition that I had to hold my nose when I went near it. A sick girl

was put on it. An old woman, with an enormous bonnet and a dirty

basket filled with chunks of bread and bits of scrap meat, completed

our company. The door was guarded by two female attendants. One

was clad in a dress made of bed-ticking and the other was dressed

with some attempt at style. They were coarse, massive women, and

expectorated tobacco juice about on the floor in a manner more

skillful than charming. One of these fearful creatures seemed to have

much faith in the power of the glance on insane people, for, when any one of us would move or go to look out of the high window she

would say “Sit down,” and would lower her brows and glare in a

way that was simply terrifying. While guarding the door they talked

with some men on the outside. They discussed the number of

patients and then their own affairs in a manner neither edifying nor

refined.

The boat stopped and the old woman and the sick girl were taken

off. The rest of us were told to sit still. At the next stop my companions were taken off, one at a time. I was last, and it seemed to

require a man and a woman to lead me up the plank to reach the

shore. An ambulance was standing there, and in it were the four

other patients.

Ten Days in a Mad-House

“What is this place?” I asked of the man, who had his fingers sunk

into the flesh of my arm.

“Blackwell’s Island, an insane place, where you’ll never get out of.”

With this I was shoved into the ambulance, the springboard was put

up, an officer and a mail-carrier jumped on behind, and I was swiftly

driven to the Insane Asylum on Blackwell’s Island.

Ten Days in a Mad-House

CHAPTER VIII.

INSIDE THE MADHOUSE.

AS the wagon was rapidly driven through the beautiful lawns up to

the asylum my feelings of satisfaction at having attained the object of

my work were greatly dampened by the look of distress on the faces

of my companions. Poor women, they had no hopes of a speedy

delivery. They were being driven to a prison, through no fault of

their own, in all probability for life. In comparison, how much easier

it would be to walk to the gallows than to this tomb of living horrors!

On the wagon sped, and I, as well as my comrades, gave a

despairing farewell glance at freedom as we came in sight of the long

stone buildings. We passed one low building, and the stench was so

horrible that I was compelled to hold my breath, and I mentally

decided that it was the kitchen. I afterward found I was correct in my

surmise, and smiled at the signboard at the end of the walk: “Visitors

are not allowed on this road.” I don’t think the sign would be

necessary if they once tried the road, especially on a warm day.

The wagon stopped, and the nurse and officer in charge told us to

get out. The nurse added: “Thank God! they came quietly.” We

obeyed orders to go ahead up a flight of narrow, stone steps, which

had evidently been built for the accommodation of people who climb

stairs three at a time. I wondered if my companions knew where we

were, so I said to Miss Tillie Mayard:

“Where are we?”

“At the Blackwell’s Island Lunatic Asylum,” she answered, sadly.

“Are you crazy?” I asked.

“No,” she replied; “but as we have been sent here we will have to be

quiet until we find some means of escape. They will be few, though,

if all the doctors, as Dr. Field, refuse to listen to me or give me a chance to prove my sanity.” We were ushered into a narrow

vestibule, and the door was locked behind us.

In spite of the knowledge of my sanity and the assurance that I

would be released in a few days, my heart gave a sharp twinge.

Pronounced insane by four expert doctors and shut up behind the

unmerciful bolts and bars of a madhouse! Not to be confined alone,

but to be a companion, day and night, of senseless, chattering

lunatics; to sleep with them, to eat with them, to be considered one

of them, was an uncomfortable position. Timidly we followed the

nurse up the long uncarpeted hall to a room filled by so-called crazy

women. We were told to sit down, and some of the patients kindly

made room for us. They looked at us curiously, and one came up to

me and asked:

“Who sent you here?”

“The doctors,” I answered.

“What for?” she persisted.

“Well, they say I am insane,” I admitted.

Ten Days in a Mad-House

“Insane!” she repeated, incredulously. “It cannot be seen in your